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F iona became more and more afraid as they neared the Viking settlement she knew to be called Skarthveit, the stronghold where her captor was master and she was now to be a slave. She could only start to imagine what fate awaited her there.

His bed-slave, he had said. His to fuck.

She shivered, though not with cold. The strange sensations her Viking had unleashed within her as she lay with him in their warm bed this morning still haunted her.

Fiona had heard other women speak, had listened to their ribald laughter and occasionally to their hushed whispers, but had never dreamed she might share such an experience.

If indeed that was what had happened to her.

She longed to ask, to better understand what he had done, but she did not dare to.

He would laugh at her, or worse still, offer to extend her understanding with a further demonstration.

She had no wish to learn. Had she?

Skarthveit came into view when they crested a particularly steep hill and their party paused to look down on the scene below.

The settlement was larger than she had imagined, much more extensive than her own village of Pennglas.

It was a town really, made up of many buildings spreading inland from the coast. The structures were not unlike the ones Fiona was accustomed to at home, plain wattle and daub walls for the most part with roofs of thatch or sometimes turf.

Smoke seeped up through the thatches or from under the eaves, evidence of crowded habitation.

Even at this distance she could make out the people of Skarthveit scurrying about their business, and livestock wandering freely among the buildings.

Poultry, cattle, sheep, and goats all meandered where they would as the town went about its daily life.

Small, tethered boats bobbed on the beach, and the entire settlement was surrounded by cultivated fields.

Fiona knew a moment’s surprise; she had not considered that these Vikings might be farmers, fishermen, traders, that their lives were not that dissimilar to her own.

She turned to Ulfric again. “How many people live here?”

“Perhaps two hundred. And the thralls, of course. They live in those barns on the edge of the town. See?” He indicated with his arm, and Fiona could pick out the stark buildings, large and forbidding, though they also oozed smoke that suggested that at least the thralls knew some comfort.

“They have food, and warmth.” Ulfric picked up on her unspoken question. “And they are well treated, provided they work and cause us no trouble. Our laws are strict, but fair.”

“The taking of slaves is never fair,” retorted Fiona before she could think better of it.

“Perhaps, but it is the way of things and you will adapt.”

She sincerely doubted that. “Am I to live there, in the slave barn?”

“You are to share my bed, Fiona, which I have never yet found reason to locate within the slave barn.”

“All the time? You will want me to be with you every night?”

“I see no reason to suppose otherwise.”

“Which is your house?” She scanned the town from her vantage point on the hill as they began to make their descent.

“That one, closest to the shore.” He pointed to the largest of the dwellings, a long, low building surrounded by a wicker fence.

Several outbuildings clustered against its timber walls, leading Fiona to suppose that her new master did not choose to share his home with his livestock.

Just like the rest of the buildings, eddies of smoke seeped through the thatched roof.

Fiona frowned. “Someone is there, in your house?”

“Of course. My family live there, with me. They will be watching eagerly for our return.”

Family? It had never occurred to Fiona to enquire once it became clear that Ulfric did not share his home with his brother. “You have a big family?” The house was the largest and grandest in the town, certainly there was enough accommodation there for a horde of Ulfric’s relatives.

“Not especially. You will see them soon.”

“Will they know? Will they know why I am there with you?”

“Of course, it will be obvious. There are other slaves, also, others from your land. You will make friends soon enough.”

Fiona’s heart sank a little further, though she would not have thought that possible. She dreaded her new role, but even worse was the prospect that she would be one of many such bed-slaves. Then another, even more terrifying possibility occurred to her.

“Will there be others? I mean… other men such as yourself? Will I be expected to… to…” She could not vocalise the thought.

“You are mine and mine alone. Now, enough questions.” Ulfric tightened his hold around her waist as he turned in the saddle to grin at his men. “We are home, my friends. Our kinsfolk await.”

With yells and shouts and fearsome war cries the men kicked their mounts into a gallop. They charged down the hill to where the people of Skarthveit already gathered in the centre of the town to welcome them home.

They arrived in the clearing of hard-packed earth that fronted Ulfric’s longhouse.

He pulled the horse to a stop and flung the reins at a lad who came hurtling from one of the outhouses.

The boy caught the trailing leather and somehow managed to hold the restless mount still while Ulfric vaulted to the ground.

He turned and held up his arms to Fiona.

“Slide down to me, little Celt. I shall catch you.”

She knew he would, and Fiona had no hesitation in trusting her safety to him. Moments later she stood on one foot, a little unsteady, but safe with his arm encircling her waist. The lad led the horse away, and they were alone before the grand dwelling.

“Come, I shall?—”

“ Fadir !” The shrill cry came from within the longhouse, and a small boy emerged running from the open doorway. He was blond, and even from a few yards away there was no mistaking his vivid blue eyes and the familiar set of his miniature features.

“Ah, Njal. I have missed you.” Ulfric bent from the waist as the boy charged toward them and he swung the lad up into the air.

Small arms encircled his neck and, one-armed, Ulfric returned the hug.

“Have you been a good boy? Have you been working at your chores as I asked you and practised hard with the sword and the axe?”

“ Fadir ?” The lad peered at Ulfric, his expression bemused.

Ulfric spoke to him again, this time in their Norse tongue and the lad grinned and nodded vigorously. He squirmed free of Ulfric’s grip and slithered to the ground, ready to bolt off. Fiona suspected he wished to rush off in search of a sword and an axe, but Ulfric called him back.

“Fiona, this is my son. His name is Njal. He is five summers of age.”

“I… I see.” She managed a tentative smile. The boy did seem pleasant enough, even if he did hop from one foot to the other, clearly eager to be off.

“Apart from your duties in my personal service, you will assist in Njal’s care also.”

She could do that. Fiona liked children. “Yes, Ulfric.”

“When we are alone you may use my given name. When others are present you will refer to me as Jarl . That is my title here.”

“Of course.”

The lad babbled something at his father and Ulfric smiled in response. He nodded and the lad shot off across the forecourt in the direction of one of the other huts.

“I am to be treated to a demonstration of his prowess with the battle axe. First though?—”

“Ulfric, you have returned. I am so pleased to see you back, safe and well.”

A woman had also emerged from the longhouse, unnoticed in their preoccupation with Njal.

She now approached, a puzzled half-smile playing on her stunning features.

The woman was beautiful, quite simply breath-taking.

She was perhaps an inch or two taller than Fiona, slender though without any hint of fragility, and was blessed with curves to match.

Her hair was arranged into two fat braids that hung over each shoulder and was so blonde it was almost white.

Her eyes were intelligent, calculating, a dark shade of blue that looked almost amethyst to Fiona.

The woman was finely dressed in a loose smock of fine yellow cotton and a woollen shawl of reds and greens.

Fiona’s own clothing had been dowdy by comparison even before her ordeal commenced and her garments were now hopelessly tattered and dirty.

She could only stare at the image of feminine perfection who now stood before her, assessing and finding Fiona sorely wanting.

“ Hvat heitir bu ?” The question was directed at Fiona.

“She does not speak our tongue, Brynhild. This is Fiona, a captive taken from the land of the Britons.”

“A thrall? Then I shall see to it that she is taken to the thrall’s hall at once. When will the rest be arriving?” The woman had switched to a form of Gaelic. She was not fluent like Ulfric, but Fiona could just about follow her speech.

“She is to live here, with us.”

“ Hvi ?” The woman, Brynhild lapsed into her own tongue and Fiona surmised the use of Gaelic had been a deliberate attempt to frighten her. Instinctively Fiona knew that Brynhild would make herself understood when it suited her, and not otherwise.

“Because she is mine. My slave. She will serve me, and assist you in the care of my son.”

“Our boy has no need of the services of a Celtic whore.” Gaelic again.

Our boy? Oh, dear sweet Lord, the woman must be Ulfric’s wife. At least now the Viking woman’s undisguised hostility made better sense. Fiona wished to simply be swallowed up by the earth at her feet.

“Watch your tongue, Brynhild. Fiona is to be treated well under our roof. And now, she is injured and has need of rest, food, and water in which to bathe. I trust I may leave those details to you?”

Brynhild snorted her disdain and turned on her heel. “Follow me, thrall.”